


The Earth of a Hundred Nations

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Future Fic, Good End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you succumb to boredom again you know that you really are on the road to recovery. It's been two whole months since you came back to Earth, but to everyone else, it's as if you came back to life. They treat you like you're fragile, not because they have no faith in you, but because you really were broken when you returned. But eventually, you're walking through your house without having to stop and lean against the wall, against Kanaya, drained by the short trip from one room to the next. You spend much of your time in the garden, Kanaya knelt in the grass, tending to the flower beds your mother has neglected for so long.</p><p>(Kanaya, Rose and the seven years it takes for things to fall into place.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Earth of a Hundred Nations

     You're going to grow up with a cigarette between two fingers and a drink in the other hand. Your skin will turn yellow around the edges and your nails will split, and your days will tumble by in a haze of bad decisions and passive aggressive clashes with your own reflection.

     This is what you think as the darkness twists and turns around you, as the tendrils wrap around your body and then straight through it, heart, abdomen, arms and all, like the tactility of your form is of no consequence at all to the gods of the Furthest Ring. This is what you want, because although that fate sounds wretched, makes your life out to be nothing but a monumental waste, your unravelling will be of your own doing. Your skin won't be ashen. Your aura won't be palpable in the air for all to see the inky black drops pooling around your feet when you allow the shadows to settle. There won't be the constant cutting whispers in the back of your head, making you forget how your own voice, your own thoughts, sound. You won't want to block out your friends as the throes that you made such light of crash down on you. It's like you're lost out at sea, dying of thirst. What you want is right there within your grasp, but it doesn't do a damned thing to save you.

     You want a normal life. A chance at messing things up yourself. You want to be free of this, this constant agony that racks your bones, stretches you out, leaves you blind. When you're still within their grasp, you don't know how much time has passed. The pain is so raw that you think you must have only been there seconds to feel it so ardently, but when you realise that you're withstanding the lashings of empty space you think that maybe you've been there for a lifetime after all. The game was won, and telling yourself that over and over in the back of your head is the only thing that keeps you going.

     Your friends must be out. They must be all safe by now, living their lives in the new universe you stitched together. Maybe they're older now. Maybe they have jobs, spouses, children of their own. Maybe they've only been out on their new homeworld for a few moments now, are still taking down deep lungfuls of the young, fresh air.

     You'll join them one day, you tell yourself. All of you have your own demons to face, and this is simply what you have to go through to earn your place in this new universe. You're walking on a bed of hot coals and broken glass to get to where you need to be, away from the gods who want to claim you for themselves, but you're going to join your friends even if it takes you from now until the end of time to break free.

     Luckily for you, it doesn't take a fraction of the eternity you've resigned yourself to.

     Two years later, you open your eyes and suddenly the sky is blue.

*

     You are cold, shaking, shuddering. You've moved beyond the point of being freezing, and are now convinced that ice surrounds your very bones, making your joints impossible to bend. You grasp for something, anything, to cover yourself with, but there are hands that aren't your own all around you, fluttering in the air, and they tear anything that so much as has a chance of creating a spark of heat away from you. You thrash, as if throwing yourself around will destroy the frost that's draped across your skin like cobwebs, and then there is a creak, something like a spring giving way beneath your back, and you realise where you are. Realise what you're on.

     A bed. You're in a bed, inside, on what you can only assume is the planet that you created in the heart of your new universe. You try to recall what happened, how you came to be here, but it's hazy. Perhaps you create much of the imagined tale in your mind; your mind that can't have much more consistency than slushed snow. What you remember is even less distinct than the shapeless void that the Furthest Ring took on: flashes of colour too bright to do anything but blind you, hands at your shoulders, your sides, carrying you, two voices, distinct in different ways, and then a third and a fourth. Someone telling you that you're hot, Rose, too hot for covers, I'm sorry but we can't let you bundle yourself up like that! and you shouting _phy'lgh ha'lean bnarg!_ back at them, seething. You woke up at odd hours, gained consciousness throughout both the day and night, and there was always someone at your side, though it wasn't always the same someone.

     You force your stubborn eyes to open, and then you know you have to be dead or worse. There's your mother sat at your side, arms folded across her chest and head tilted forward where she's fallen asleep, and this all has to be an illusion, some sick deception, because she's long since been gone from this mortal plane. But then John's voice flickers back into your mind, distorted, and he's not scolding you for trying to tear the duvet from between his hands. He's cheerful, mumbling on and on about how they thought they were never going to see you again, how they were so certain that you'd died, and maybe he was crying a little as he spoke. You remember other people crying, too, but you don't recall who they were. And then he added something on about how you really did win, there's proof enough in the fact that you've come back, finally, and this world is actually pretty awesome. They're all there, all of the ones you all lost throughout the struggle, and none of the other humans seem to even notice the trolls are there, isn't that great!

     You think it sounds too good to be true. You're certain the gods are plaguing your mind further, and so you bring your hands up to your own throat, pressing down hard against it. You kick your legs out and your mother wakes with a start, and you never really noticed how strong she was until she's wrestling your hands away from your bruised neck. You try and tell her that you don't really want to kill yourself, that you're just not going to allow your hopes to rise and then fall, and that you're trying to break out of this fragmented reality conjured up only to torment you. None of the words come out, of course, because your throat is raw and you can't form anything in your mother tongue anymore. But she understands you well enough, tells you that it's alright, that it's _real_.

     And then you utterly break, force yourself into the fabric of reality rather than out of it, and then, of all people, you're sobbing into your mother's shoulder.

*

     Your bouts of coherency come and go. When your eyes are closed, you can't remember a single detail about the room around you. People come and go in the same way, and mostly you want them gone, because you don't want them to see you like this. Not when you don't have your words to create a thorny cage around yourself. You're still freezing all of the time, and no matter how you beg and plead, they still don't allow you to envelope yourself in covers. When you finally muster up the sense to bring a hand to your forehead, you suppose that they do have a point. Your fingers end up slick with your own sweat.

     You have to ride it out. You dealt with the darkness for two whole years, a figure you've heard whispered from various indeterminable sources, and you're sure you can come out of this the victor. What's gripped you is nothing more than a fever, and you want to see the world that's spread out before you. The world that you helped create. You've heard about bits and pieces of it from your mother, from John, and Jade – you think it was Jade, at least – but can't put the puzzle together without seeing it with your own eyes. And you do long to see it, to see _anything_ that isn't the black of the Furthest Ring, the black behind your own eyelids. You want to remember how to use your other senses, how to smell freshly cut grass, feel the mattress beneath your fingertips as you scrape at it, taste the food that they make your chew down but never stays in your stomach for long.

     Within a fortnight, you're starting to make more sense of what's around you, as well as more sense to those around you. You can go for whole minutes sat up straight, listening to what's being said to you, and you even manage to retain some of the information. Your temperature drops, and they give you a thin blanket that doesn't weigh down on you as much as you'd like it to, and you spend your waking hours fearing that it's going to float away if you don't pin it down under one arm. Your mother drags you to the shower and doesn't have faith enough in you not resigning yourself to drowning, should you slip over, and remains with you the entire time. The water's good, though. It clears your mind, and god knows you're in need of a wash after how worked up you've been.

     It's one of these trips to the shower that affords you the clarity to realise that someone's at your side. Someone different, this time. They speak to you, and you think oh, it's Kanaya. You don't know how you know it's Kanaya, but it's an undeniable truth as soon as you consider it to so much as be her. There's something that's so very _her_ in the way she speaks to you, words pronounced clearly, heavily, lifted up by the quirks of her accent. Even with your head buzzing you manage to take this all in. Turning onto your side, you look up at her, but don't quite have the energy to lift your head.

     She is a glowing, burning painting, and all at once you want to throw your pathetically thin blanket over her to put her out. Anything to help. She looks down at you, white fangs gleaming in stark contrast to the natural black of her lips, and it hits you all at once how much you thought of her in the Furthest Ring. How the desire to one day meet her was one of the few things that kept you going, though you were certain it would be an impossibility. And now it isn't like you imagined it to be. You're suddenly aware of the complete and utter state you must be in, but when she smiles at your apparent recognition of her, you don't care. You don't care that you're bound to the bed, barely able to do much more than throw fits that your conscious mind soon blocks out, or that your hair is askew and god, she looks exactly like you expected her to, even if every curve of her blurred face traces an unknown line, creating a picture you've never found room to place in your mind before.

     You smile as best you can, relieved. Not just for her, but for a whole race. You've heard murmurings that the trolls were located safely on this new Earth, that the universe allowed them to go unnoticed as if to apologise to them for what they'd previously been through, but Kanaya's the first one you've seen in the flesh. You don't look up at her horns as much as you expected yourself to. You just hold her gaze, silently apologising for being such a wreck, and she only laughs softly at you, causing some of the black fog that rises from your skin to simmer and settle down.

     She says that she heard how you just appeared back in the recreation of your old garden, no rhyme or reason behind the motion, and that she came back as soon as she could. She doesn't say where she came back from, but it hits you in that moment, when she bows her head a little and looks away from you, biting on her lower lip: they believed you dead. Each and every one of them lived with the knowledge that you were the only one to not make it for two whole years, and yet there you are again. This must feel as unreal to Kanaya as it does to you.

     You want to say something to her. You part your lips and try, but it isn't a word she can understand, and you only grow frustrated at yourself. When she sees your brow furrow and your eyes flash, she lets out a sigh, and uses one hand to brush the loose strands of hair back from your forehead. You shiver at that, though it isn't any sort of coldness that rushes through you, and without thinking about it, throw your forearm to the side so that your wrist hangs off the edge of the bed, palm facing towards the ceiling.

     Kanaya reaches out, takes your hand in her own, and says I'm going to ramble about everything that's happened to me, Rose, before you get too well again and can interrupt me.

*

     Kanaya tells you all about what she's been through over the proceeding days. She speaks slowly, though she doesn't patronise you in the least, but you become frustrated regardless when you forget what she's said minutes later and can only stare blankly at her when she's still talking and you have no idea what any of it means. She's patient. She repeats herself over and over, never tiring of telling you the same thing. You think it sounds nice, her life on Earth. New Earth, you keep mentally calling it, though nobody else does. The universe works overtime in order to ensure that the trolls remain blurred into the background, but honestly, you don't know why. It would be a lot easier for the fabric of space and time to just erase a dozen trolls from the confines of its existence, but then you suppose that twelve trolls in an infinitely expanding mass of darkness can't honestly take up much energy to sustain.

     They always have what they need, and everything serendipitously falls into place. The only fault they came across was the issue of the language barrier between them and the rest of the planet, but you agree that Kanaya's picked up English remarkably well. Her accent's unlike anything you've ever heard before, and you can't count how many times you drift off to the sound of it. She tells you that she's been travelling, with Karkat and Aradia, mostly, all across the globe, trying to learn as much as she can about her new home. She was in Andorra when John got word to her that you were alive, and her voice always hitches on that last word. You must be like a ghost to her still, and you doubt that she's fully allowed herself to believe what she sees before her. Kanaya supposes that she'll settle down somewhere eventually, but she's just not used to the crowded cities, the bustling life stacked up in such close quarters. She likes to travel, likes the great open plains and the deserts that are so much cooler on Earth than they ever were on Alternia.

     You think she's a lifeline. You think she isn't real. You still spend most of your days sleeping, so you don't know whether she's by your side the entire time, but you're having a difficult time wrapping your mind around the fact that she's _there_ , that Kanaya's with you. Everyone's made a life for themselves on Earth, but you've only recently escaped the game, or a shadowy reflection thereof. You're behind them, and you fear that you're no longer a part of what you once had. Until Dave turns up at your bedside, shades firmly in place despite it being late evening, and says Sup, Lalonde, didn't think it would take you so long to get back here. And then everything's alright. Kanaya may be a figment of your imagination, an illusion from the deepest recesses of your brain, but she keeps the gears turning and the pistons firing.

     You're trying so desperately to figure her out that your mind doesn't have the chance to slip into a hazy, sludgy mess. You want to be able to speak clearly to her, to grin and snark and call her out on her bullshit in a way that you know she'll only feign offence over, just like before. Just like when all you had of her were her jade words, not her voice in your ear, her hand on your shoulder, the backs of her knuckles grazing your cheek when one night is harder than all those that have come before it.

     The others come by once every few days, so there's always somebody there to talk to you. You soon find that their words all slowly begin to mesh together, though, and you can't remember who's told you what. You hear all about the other trolls, how Terezi and Vriska are off somewhere sparking up their own brand of trouble and never facing any consequences for it, but you don't recall who informed you of that or what any of the other trolls are doing. John's back in school, and so is Dave. You remember that much. And Jade, she doesn't live on her island anymore, which explains how she was so quick to your side. She lives with John and his dad, you think, but you're not sure what became of Bec. You don't think anyone's told you that much.

     When you've been back on solid ground for an entire month, something inside of you clicks and you think you've found your voice again. Knees pulled up to your chest as you lie there, you turn to Kanaya, lips slowly parting, forming soundless words. Her eyes flicker up over the edge of the book she's been reading to you, and she raises her eyebrows, silently telling you to go on, that it's alright, she's sure you can do it. It has to be something profound. Your first words in an Earthly tongue have to mean something. The corners of your mouth twitch and you try again, throat red-raw.

> Toast.  
> What Was That Rose  
> Did You Really Just Ask For Toast After Two Whole Weeks Of Me Diligently Sitting At Your Bedside And Waiting For You To Finally Be Able To Answer Me

     If you had the strength, you'd reach up and thwack Kanaya over the shoulder. In spite of what she says, she just won't stop grinning, and all you can do in retaliation is exhale heavily through your nose, amused. It stirs something up inside your chest, sends a jolt through you, and it's only then that you really feel that you might have a chance to truly get better. When you first stumbled out of the black and tumbled onto Earth's surface, you couldn't even comprehend how much your whole body ached, how your conscious mind had packed up and burrowed deep into some part of yourself where it might have been protected. You can no longer conceptualise how bad things were, how you twisted and screamed and felt frozen to the bone, because how you've felt for the past few days hasn't been good at all, and your mind can't take the strain of imagining things being any worse.

     Kanaya gets up and tells you she's heading to the kitchen. Only she calls it a nourishblock, and you supposes there are some habits she'll never get out of. You think you may drift off a little, exhausted by the strain of speaking, but you snap back into reality as the smell of toast drifts up towards you. Your eyes open wide, and you realise that you can actually _smell_ it, that it's painting a clear picture in the back of your head. Your teeth worry into your lower lip, and you wonder if you can really put another sense to the test in lifting the toast up and taking a bite. You've been living on nothing but water and a few tasteless pieces of _something_ that you're reassured will stop your starving, will stop your stomach from clenching and aching, though it didn't often stay down.

     Instead of eating straight away, you try forming another word.

>   
> Tha—   
> Take Your Time Rose   
> Thank you.   
> Oh No  
> Why Are You Looking At The Toast Like That  
> Did I Put Too Much Butter On Its Crispy Surface   
> 

     You shake your head. You weren't aware that you were looking at it like anything at all. Deciding not to press the matter, Kanaya places a hand against the centre of your back, helping you sit up. You'd much rather remain curled up on your side, but the thought of choking is a tiring one, and so you shuffle up, resting against the headboard. You bend your knees, creating arches with your legs, and Kanaya humours the balancing act you attempt with your kneecaps and the plate. She keeps a finger and thumb on the edge of the plate at all times, and you're determined to tear the toast down into manageable parts yourself. It takes a while, but then you're chewing and chewing, jaw aching, crumbs caught against the corner of your mouth. That doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter how long it takes or how difficult it is, as long as you're able to keep it all down.

     And once you're finally able to eat, you come on leaps and bounds. You begin to think rationally about things, and a lot suddenly hits you at once. You realise that Kanaya's been living in your house for the better part of three weeks, which no doubt means that she must come into a lot of contact with your mother. Perhaps they sit down at the kitchen table together and talk about you. Perhaps they have other things to talk about, and god forbid, things in common. You don't know why, but there's something about it that makes you incredibly uneasy, as if your mother knowing Kanaya means that she knows things about you that she shouldn't.

     When you think about it logically, there isn't anything Kanaya could tell your mother to clue her in any further to the inner workings of your mind. Your thought process just hasn't been up to scratch, lately, and what your mother knows about you already is worse than anything Kanaya could share with her, accidentally or otherwise. You trust Kanaya, but you don't trust your mother to do anything but see right through her.

     Kanaya remains in the room with you for much of the day. You stay awake for full hours, and together you read books when your eyes will focus on the black and white print, watch movies when the coloured blur doesn't make you dizzy, and listen to music when all else fails. She brings you your knitting needles, but your hands aren't quite steady enough to hold them, and so she sits in the corner, _clack-clack-clacking_ away. When you begin to feel restless, she helps you to your feet, and the better you feel the more you realise just how much she's doing for you. You tell her in awkwardly formed, stilted words that she does too much, that there's no way for you to repay her, and she simply laughs under her breath, and you wish that she wasn't so infuriatingly selfless. So devoted to you. She brings you flowers that she's grown in your garden, just to brighten the place up, she says.

     The nights are the hardest. You never say as much, but on the rare occasion that Kanaya falls asleep curled up in the armchair, you feel better for her being there, because the glow that hums from her reminds you that you have an escape, that the darkness isn't absolute. You don't want to be afraid of the dark, and you try to rationalise it out. You tell yourself that it isn't fear, just confusion, because it's easy to forget that you're in your bedroom in the middle of the night when you blink and nothing floods with light around you. It's easy to believe that you're still in the depths of the Furthest Ring, darkness cutting right through you.

     You hear whispers still, in your dreams. They're distant, now, as if muffled through an old rag, as if spoken by someone with their own hands clamped down over their mouth. You might not understand what's said, and you might know they can no longer truly reach you, but you feel their meaning nonetheless. You skin buzzes, the shadows dance between your fingertips, spiralling up from your head, your shoulders, your arms, like smoke from a funeral pyre. When you awaken fully, when Kanaya shakes you by your shoulders because your eyes are open but your senses aren't quite there, their language burns the tip of your tongue. That's the only time that Kanaya ever looks as if she might back away from you, but she never does.

     The first time you succumb to boredom again you know that you really are on the road to recovery. It's been two whole months since you came back to Earth, but to everyone else, it's as if you came back to life. They treat you like you're fragile, not because they have no faith in you, but because you really were broken when you returned. But eventually, you're walking through your house without having to stop and lean against the wall, against Kanaya, drained by the short trip from one room to the next. You spend much of your time in the garden, Kanaya knelt in the grass, tending to the flower beds your mother has neglected for so long.

     You get used to her being there, even more so when you no longer depend on her. You can't quite push yourself as much as you once did, but it's late on a Friday evening and you're walking back from the supermarket with Kanaya, arms bundled full of shopping bags where the handles have long since snapped, and it seems like everything will be alright. The charcoal flames flicker across your stone-grey skin, but no one seems to notice, in the same way that people look straight through Kanaya's horns. You wonder how the two of you must look to everyone else. Just like two regular teenage girls, you expect, and the thought makes you smile to yourself. No one would ever believe what the two of you had been through, let alone understand it.

     And then one day, Kanaya leaves. She was never going to stay forever, you should've realised that long ago, but for some reason, it never occurred to you. You never thought of her being in your home simply to look after you, to make sure that you got back on you feet. But then she's packing her suitcase back up and you're hovering awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if any part of you could ever bring yourself to ask her to stay, just another day or two. She was travelling the world before you showed up. You don't see why her plans should change. You watch as she puts her last few belongings away, and she has so little luggage with her it's as if it fails to measure the importance of the time she's spent with you. It's as if she's merely stopped over.

     Your mother drives her to the airport, but you don't go along with them. You're feeling dizzy again, you say, but don't make it out to be bad enough to make Kanaya to feel guilty, as if to persuade her to stay. You simply don't want to have to deal with being car sick, and that's the long and short of it. Kanaya tells you that she'll email you as soon as she can, and the moment she's out of the door, you've got your laptop open, trying to think of something to say to her, something to beat her to the punch.

     The words never come to mind, though you do win twelve out of twenty games of solitaire.

*

     It occurs to you, eventually, that you're going to have to get on with your life. You're better. You're not completely back to the way you once were and probably never will be, but you're better. Your days are longer, you tear through novels you never thought you'd have the chance to set your eyes on again, and you sleep for long enough not to feel drained the next morning. Your mother enrols you back into school. A new one, because you never had any friends in your old on to call your own, and your mother explains to the principal that you've been ill for a few years, but she doesn't think you'll have any problems settling back in, academically.

     And you don't. You dive straight back into your work, because you can't make a career out of being a witch in this universe. The work is something to focus on, a goal to set yourself, and you're automatically excused from all PE classes in case the strain of exercise gets too much for you. This would make you laugh if your past was the sort of thing you laughed about, because it doesn't feel as if it was that long ago when you were ripping planets to shreds.

     Kanaya does as she promised and emails you as soon as she can, which turns out to be ten days after she left. It's been a month since then, and though you still have the email in your inbox, you've yet to reply. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself, because Kanaya probably doesn't have an internet connection wherever she now is. She's probably doing so much that she's forgotten that she even contacted you in the first place, but even as you think such a thought you know it to be nonsense. Kanaya doesn't forget things like that, and you're only putting it off because for some reason or another, you're intent on being childish, insistent on acting like your pride has been bruised because of her. She acted like you were hers to save and then packed up and left, and you don't care about how startlingly normal you now feel.

     Your turn on your laptop, opening up your inbox. There are two hundred and ninety-eight unread mails, all relics from the years that you slipped out of the grasp of reality.

>   
> Dear Rose  
> I Apologise For Having Taken Ten Whole Days To Contact You  
> I Honestly Thought That There Would Be A Reliable Internet Connection In The Hotel We Were To Stay In  
> But Oh Well I Suppose I Cannot Expect This Universe To Ensure That Each And Every Last Aspect Of Our Continued Existence Goes Perfectly Even If We Did Create It  
> I Mean We Created The Last One And It Certainly Didnt Do Us Any Favours  
> Listen To Me I Sound Like A Disgruntled Lusus  
> Anyway I Am Currently Borrowing Internet From A Bar I Have Stumbled Across  
> It Is Definitely Borrowing And Not Stealing Despite There Being No Way To Return The Data Of Theirs That Im Using  
> But As Such I Cant Sit Here And Write For Very Long Which I Suppose Is Good For You Because It Will Probably Be Much Simpler For You To Scold Me For Rambling Over  
> Really Now I Wont Bore You Will Tales Of My Travel As This Is A Near Perfect Replica Of The Planet You Grew Up On And Have Probably Experienced It All Already If Only Through Magazines Television Movies Etc  
> All I Would Really Like To Know Is How You Are  
> What Youre Doing  
> And So On  
> If That Isnt Too Intrusive  
> Best Regards  
> Kanaya   
> 

     You've read it over and over again. There's nothing bitter or scornful in the message, and yet it still stings for reasons you can't put into words. And because you can't put it into words, you decide that you're just going to have to get over it and reply to her.

     You type slowly, as if the keys are going to rearrange themselves under your fingertips and make you write things you don't mean.

>   
> Kanaya,
> 
> There are all sorts of imaginative reasons that you're no doubt conjuring up to as why I have yet to reply to you when more than a month has been and gone since your initial message. The truth is that I have no excuses whatsoever, unless you take into the consideration the weight of the homework the education system sees fit to set, and the punishments doled out for being tardy with our assignments are grave.
> 
> I am sorry for being so neglectful, though.
> 
>   
> 

     You backspace that last sentence.

>   
> You'll have to forgive me for being so neglectful.
> 
> As already alluded to, I have once again embarked on the adventure that is education. I'm in high school now, actually, which either means nothing to you, or means that you've spent your time on Earth watching too many godawful teenage dramas. My days are long, and I spent them laboriously lugging an oversized backpack down the long corridors, fighting my way through crowds of people who acknowledge my existence even less willingly than they acknowledge their own rapidly declining grades. Lessons do provide some reprieve, though I am still forced to endure the verbal lashings of teachers who cannot single out culprits, and so punish the whole class. And then, after being caged into the school bus like a starved cluckbeast ripe for the chopping board, I am rewarded by the company of my dearest mother, who still asks after you, by the way.
> 
> What I am trying to say, despite being intentionally heavy-handed, is that my life is startlingly normal. I should be relieved by that much, I know, but I'm constantly on the lookout for a burning tree cascading my way. Knitting and reading are all very well, and do obliterate the unnecessary dregs of lingering time to a fairly adequate standard, but for the most part I remain restless. I'm not saying that I miss the literal magic of my life gone by, and I suppose I am merely caught in the stubborn throes of the tenth grade.
> 
> Perhaps I'll knit another scarf, then I'll have a full dozen.
> 
> I'd like to hear about your adventures very much, Kanaya.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Rose.
> 
>   
> 

     You decide not to read it over, typos be dammed, because if you do, you're only going to chip away at the snide veneer of your words and make the whole message even more frosty than it already is. You'd like to be honest with her, to be open, but you're not certain you have it in you. It's not school you want to discuss with her, it's something more, but you decide that you're just going to have to settle for what you've allowed yourself to have. To your surprise, an email comes back not fifteen minutes later.

     Kanaya says that she wasn't particularly surprised by the silence on your end, nor was she worried, seeing as John's behaviour is a lot more conductive to maintaining a long distance friendship, and he's been letting her know that you're alright. You're frustrated at the both of them initially, feeling that you're being spied on, but deep down you know that the only alternative was for Kanaya to drown in a sea of worry. She's seen you go off the deep end, seen you at your very worst, and you don't want her to have to entertain thoughts of the worst that could happen to you. In the future, you're just going to have to keep the lines of communication open if you don't want Kanaya and John teaming up to pry on you.

     After the deservedly scolding start to the email, Kanaya becomes wonderfully willing to do what you've suggested, and doesn't hold back a single thing about her journeys. She tells you all about the places she's been, the people she's met, the food she's eaten, and you wonder why you were so stubbornly reluctant to reply to her before, because it really isn't so bad like this. You're smiling. It takes you a moment to realise what you're doing, but you're definitely smiling, suddenly feeling like you have the important part of her back again. You really can be an idiot sometimes.

     And then you're replying straight away, skipping over the formalities of belatedly apologising to her, stacking your questions and comments atop one another, knowing that she'll take the time to take them all in. It doesn't take long until you're in constant contact. She'll reply to you every day for weeks at a time, and then even when she's travelling through some distant land that hasn't yet been blessed with wireless, you look forward to these breaks. She keeps a diary of sorts of everything that's happened during the time you've been cut off from one another and emails them over to you at the first possibly opportunity, and you're glued to your screen as you read these emails. Once you're done, you feel like you've eaten an entire meal, one that warms the depths of your stomach.

     You talk about school, about John and Jade and Dave, and your mother too, sometimes, when she insists on it, and she sends you photographs of the places she visits. You can't remember when, exactly, but at some point you ask her why she doesn't let Karkat take the photographs, so that she has some record of herself to look back on. When she stays in one place for longer than others, like a dusty little village in the middle of nowhere because Aradia wants to spend a month or two poking around long forgotten ruins, the two of you talk on Pesterchum when time zones permit you both to virtually meet up. It becomes part of your routine, like the years spent talking to your friends who truly were friends long before you ever came face to face with them.

     And then a few days before your seventeenth birthday, she acts so obviously jittery that you can't allow yourself to let her stew in what you're certain she considers to be subtlety. You ask her what she's waiting to ask you, and she acts as if she's actually surprised you've managed to figure her out. After a fair amount of tussling via text, you finally drag a single question out of her: she asks if your mother would object to her staying at your house over the Christmas period. You break out into a smile, try to force it back, and you ask what makes her think that you wouldn't object to her staying over. Kanaya doesn't miss a beat, and just asks what makes you think that she's coming over to see you.

     A week later, your mother drives you to the airport, and you pace back and forth around arrivals when her plane is delayed by an entire twenty-five minutes. The moment you step into the building you're reminded of the way that you didn't make the effort to see her off close to two years ago, but you quickly shake the uncomfortable feeling off. So much time has passed and so much has been said between the two of you that you doubt it matters in the least, and you won't allow yourself to cling to any paper-thin excuses to back out of this. It wouldn't be fair on her. It wouldn't be fair on either of you.

     It's not until you're actually there that you realise that you're going to have to work out some way in which to greet her. A wave of the hand seems weak, far too timid for the snark battles you've become accustomed to, and a handshake is far too impersonal. You worry, for a moment, that she may attempt to hug you while you stand there frozen, like one of the wizard statues your mother insists on buying for each and every holiday, Easter included, but soon come to the conclusion that she'll be carrying far too many bags to be able to work out how to balance them all and wrap her arms around you at the same time. Perhaps you'll simply smile at her. Perhaps that will be enough.

     As you wait, you rock on the balls of your feet, trying to see over the crowd that spills out, as if a glowing troll is somehow going to be difficult to pick out. When you actually do see her, you forget all about the nerves that you were writing off as a host of anxieties bred by a particularly poignant look from your mother, and then you're pushing through the crowd, shoulders jutting into arms, to reach her. She is a brilliant blur until suddenly, the two of you are stood in front of one another, and as you both break into an orchestrated series of laughs, you wonder why you ever thought that dealing with her in the flesh would be more difficult than talking to her for long hours into the night and being far too tired to adequately concentrate in class the next day is.

     You think she might have grown a great deal, but you can't tell how much, exactly. Back when you were still gripped by the grimdark throes in more than the brand across your skin alone, you had felt small, smaller than you'd ever truly been. She's always towered over you, but know you know it's not because you're curled into yourself. Reaching out, you chivalrously take one of her bags from her, and then roll your eyes when your mother insists on hugging her in greeting, almost getting her pink scarf tangled up in Kanaya's horns in the process. Your mother suggests that the three of you stop somewhere for coffee before heading back to the house, but you just say that you can get coffee anywhere at any time, and would rather just be home.

     The car journey back to your house feels a thousand times shorter than the one to the airport did, and the whole time the two of you are chatting away as if you haven't passed so much as a word to one another during the years that you've gone without seeing each other. She shares anecdote after anecdote about the flight there, her experiences with the airports on both ends and the respective security, and of course, regales you with far too many details about the food the airline saw fit to serve up. You like the way that she talks about this world, about your world, because even after all the years she's been upon its surface, there's still so much that utterly fascinates her about it. You often wonder why she needs to travel so very much, why it hasn't been enough yet, but you know you're taking the thirteen years more of experience you have over her for granted. There are still things that confuse you about your own planet and the people upon it, and you think what Kanaya is doing is admirable, if not difficult.

     The guest room is set up for her, and the whole house has been decorated in extravagant, clichéd streams of red, green and gold, along with a tree in almost every room and ceramic reindeer and Santas lining all of the windowsills and mantelpieces. It's tacky in every sense of the word, and you know that your mother has only done it to offend your line of sight, but Kanaya seems so wide-eyed and enthralled by it all that you almost don't care how many stray strands of tinsel you keep finding in your hair.

     She has a week to spend with you, and it seems like forever and no time at all in the same moment. Neither of you entertain the thought of retiring to bed at anything resembling a normal hour, and stay up long into the night and then the morning that follows it, talking to each other, watching movies, making terrible attempts at dinner together, always inevitably falling asleep on the sofa when you're too tired to move, not to mention too comfortable. It's so overwhelmingly normal, and being with Kanaya makes you feel that the darkness that once claimed you as its own was nothing more than something you read in a book, something that only plagues the corners of your over-active imagination and doesn't creep elsewhere. While you're together, you live very much in the present, not discussing what's already unfolded and not falling into any uncomfortable silences because of it, and it's amazing how little you have to think through what you're trying to say. It all comes naturally to the tip of your tongue, and for once, it's almost as if you draw out the right words.

     You tell her all about Christmas, though this certainly isn't her first one on this planet, and she listens to your tales of your mother's ironic indulgence regardless. You speak out against the commercialism of it all, but oh, you've got her a present, of course you have. It's alright, though, because it's all hand-made, and she'll appreciate that more than anything you could've ordered out of a catalogue or online. You think. You hope. On the morning of the day itself, you present her with a matching set of gloves, scarf, hat and slippers, all in her colour, all decorated with her symbol, because you're certain she's bound to go somewhere cold, sooner or later. Her face lights up to an extent that you can't adequately explain, because she's always constantly glowing, and you didn't realise it could get much brighter than it already is. But her smile widens and her teeth slide out over her lower lip all the more, and you don't even flinch when she wraps her arms around your shoulders, thwacking the side of your face with one end of the scarf in the process.

     Her gifts to you are numerous and tiny and ornate, all bundled together in a box she's made herself from fabrics from every corner of every country she's visited. You open the box carefully, peering in at the hand carved statues she's collected on her journeys, tiny cats made from smooth black stone and rich brown pine. You might not reach out to hug her in gratitude, but you voice your appreciation without any layers of honed human insincerity, as she'd put it. Every so often your mother will make an appearance, bringing the two of you in freshly made cookies and cold milk, even though she knows that Kanaya's lactose intolerant. Once upon a time, this would've frustrated you more than anything, but if you're being honest with yourself, you're too glad that she's alive again to do anything more than snap in her general direction.

     And then before you know it, you're back at the airport, the airport you reached far too quickly, and Kanaya's heading away from you again. The difference this time is that you knew it was coming this time, and that you're not covering up your own feelings on the matter by being angry at her. Your shoulders rise to your ears as the two of you say goodbyes that are so much more awkward than your greetings were, and when she's finally out of sight and your mother suggests that the two of you get coffee, you find that you're in no rush to get home.

     Your bitter mood persists for several days, during which you don't act particularly differently; you confine yourself to your room, alternating between typing and knitting, with the occasional break taken devoted to rearranging the pile of Tangle Buddies on the end of your bed that Jade gave you for your sixteenth birthday. When Kanaya finally manages to reconnect to the internet, which you certainly haven't been waiting for all along, everything suddenly snaps back to how it was. You begin talking to her, feel the unpleasantness you've been subjecting the rest of your friends to for days drain out through your fingertips, and you know that Kanaya's no further away from you for being gone from your house.

     The next year goes faster than you could've imagined, and you're left in such a state of disbelief at how quickly things pass you by that if any of you still retained your powers from the game, you would've blamed Dave for its unnatural rapidity. In the early spring, Mr. Egbert proposes to your mother, and you go to the effort of acting like it surprises you in any way, shape or form. He's around as often as Jade is, and gave up on using the excuse of just dropping John or Jade off months and months ago. You try to be happy for your mother, and it's not that the arrangement bothers you, so much as you don't see how it's going to change things immediately. You might just be a jaded teenager, but at the end of the day, it's just a piece of paper. The part that does make you a little uncomfortable is the fact that you're going to have three new permanent residents in your house, but even that goes better than you allowed yourself to expect.

     John and Jade know that you need time to yourself, and Mr. Egbert is a very quiet, sensible man, even if the constant smell of cake baking from the kitchen makes you uneasy for the first few weeks. Dave visits while your mother and new step-father are off on their vacation, which more or less means that they're leaving a trail of alcohol and pipe smoke behind them in another country. While the four of you deal with the stifling summer heat that even the air conditioning can't battle against, playing on your beat-up old Gamecube, Dave points out that through ectoshit meteors and weddings the four of you are technically all siblings now, and that really fucks up karkats shipping doodle.

     Your house is big enough for the five of you to live in without stepping on each other's toes, and some days, you run into more wizard statues than you do Lalondes, Egberts or Harleys. If you were anyone else, you might say that having a family that large was nice, but because you are who you are, you simply complain that John's never ending bad movie binge via bit torrent is causing your internet to lag. And even if there was a real problem, it wouldn't matter all that much. Your final year of school tears right by you, and you're barely able to keep up with it. Truth be told, the two years that you missed due to your mysteriously vague and vaguely mysterious illness did very little to damage your grades, as apparently nothing of importance was covered during that time period, but you've always set her sights high. Absolutely no one is surprised by the fact that you're going to study psychology in college. You don't even have to declare it; it's simply a given.

     John decides to take up drama and Jade goes for physics, while Dave is comfortable in the rather nice situation he's made for himself, DJing at local clubs and producing his own stuff on the side. After several months of stressful deadlines that you're certain will seem like a joke once you actually get to college, and not having as much time as you'd like to talk to Kanaya, to anyone, you finally get into your first choice, and couldn't be happier with yourself. Not that you'd ever say as much, though with the whole of summer now spread out before you, the entire internet opens up once again, and you never have a shortage of things to tell Kanaya. Some part of you hopes that she'll come over and spend a least a week with you during the summer, as it's the last big break you're going to have, before you're constantly bogged down with assignments and private study. She doesn't even allude to coming over, though, and part of you wonders if it's because you didn't make the effort to suggest as much to her in the first place. Perhaps she simply doesn't feel welcome. You'd hoped that her Christmas visits were going to become a regular thing, but it's been a year and a half and you still haven't seen her since, outside of the context of photographs.

     Photographs that you'll admit to staring at a little too much, but only in the name of science. It's fascinating to see how much she changes over such a relatively short period of time, incredible to see the way her horns make her tower high above absolutely everyone, and you're impressed by how many of these differences you can pick out from photo to photo. You know there will be a thousand more changes to spot in person, and the enormity of how much you want to do so hits you all at once. You're kidding yourself when you think that you could say that much to her, could even drop a hint. You tell yourself that she might be holding back certain things as well, but then you quickly rid yourself of the notion. There's no point in getting your hopes up, because it's obvious how Kanaya sees you. You were a foolish girl who couldn't keep the darkness at bay, and you needed someone, anyone, to tear you from the black that continued to cling to you.

     You were a liability to her. A weak thing that required constant care and attention, like the wilting, withered old plants in her garden that appeared long since past repair. You're about to enter college, to be chained down by the shackled of overpriced education, and it wouldn't be fair of you to try altering the course of her life. She travels through far off lands that you've barely even heard of. God, she's wholly selfless, always making sure she has someone to take care of, to help; she volunteers in Kenyan orphanages and helps build schools throughout Africa. Your black heart clenches at the thought, until it becomes a piece of coal, and you go through one of your phases of not talking to her quite as much as you could do.

     Moving half way across the country makes it difficult to linger too much on the thought of Kanaya, or rather, the lack of her. You pack all that you need from your room into three suitcases, bright pink ones your mother purchased for you, and drag the physical representation of your life into the back of your car. You say goodbye to your mother and Mr. Egbert, and then to John and Jade, promising that you'll all visit each other's colleges at the first possible chance you get. Money's never been an issue in your household, and so you know your friends have all the resources they need to stick to their word. The night before Dave tells you that he's going to drop by soon, too, maybe get a gig at the campus' club, and for the whole journey there, you grip the steering wheel far too tightly, like you've only just passed your driving test. In actuality, you got your licence as soon as you could, enjoying the freedom it granted you.

     You're not nervous. You've fought demons before, you've listened to the whispers of ancient gods, and you've _died_ ; moving to a new city and starting at a new school doesn't have any right to make you nervous. You're also perfectly prepared, having visited the city in question five times already and memorised a dozen maps and bus routes, and so there's absolutely nothing that could go wrong. Nothing short of unruly housemates in your college-owned accommodation. They could be a set of obnoxious eighteen year old boys, drinking every night and returning with a great clatter at three in the morning. Worse still, they could want to talk to you.

     It's almost disappointing when they turn out to be surprisingly tolerable, with the exception of one boy who keeps using your ketchup without asking first. One of them brings an X-Box along, which keeps them confined to one bedroom and distracted much of the time, and after a few nights spent knocking on your door and asking if you'd like to go out clubbing with them, they finally realise that it's futile and leave you be. You almost regret to inform them that you are not, in fact, the life of the party, but you'd rather have your peace and quiet. You weave back together the frayed remains of the social threads that have been gnawed through almost completely by baking them a ridiculous array of cakes when the first weekend rolls around. You've learnt a thing or two from Mr. Egbert.

     When classes finally start up, you find yourself wondering what you actually did with all the empty hours in your day. You commit yourself to them fully. You never put your hand up, but you always have the answers, and by the time a mere month has passed, you're already the master of time management. You write essays, read journals, attend to your (still very private) fiction, and still have plenty of time to talk to Dave and Jade and John online as you always have. The second essay you're set deals with the subject of analysing dreams, and you find yourself bored by the case studies and examples cited, because how could such banal visions ever be telling of a person's innermost thoughts? And why should inky dreams of black and grey really reveal the depths of one's subconscious? You get the highest grade in the class, but get into arguments on the matter with two of your lecturers, too.

     Eventually, you begin to notice several of the girls around campus, and before you know it, one of them's noticed you in kind. A week later and you're sat in a little café with her, and while everything is _nice_ , while the conversation is pleasant and it flows, that's all it is. Just nice. While she tells you all about the situation she has going on with two of her dormmates she's never been on the best of terms with, you find yourself wondering what she'd do if she could really see you, if she could she the blackness that oozes from your skin and fades to wisps in the air. It's as if it's purposely mimicking the surface of the hot coffee. Not half an hour in, however, you're distracted by an alert from your phone that in turn tells you that Kanaya's sent you an email.

     You excuse yourself. You can't remember what you say to her and hope that it wasn't too blunt, but all of a sudden, you don't want to be there. It's ridiculous. Kanaya's email isn't going anywhere, isn't going to delete itself if you don't read it straight away, and yet there you are, trying not to run back to your room. Twelve minutes later and a rushed greeting to someone who poked their head out from the kitchen to say hi, you're back in your room, door slammed behind you, heart pounding. You're getting far too out of shape. The seventeen seconds that it takes your laptop to come out of hibernation mode and let you onto Cetus are far too long.

     When you finally get the email from Kanaya open, your eyes skim over it and your brain takes in absolutely none of the words. You catch your breath, vaguely feeling bad for the girl in the café. But then you've got the gist of it, read the middle paragraph three times over to ensure that you aren't imagining things and that Kanaya really is coming to visit you, and it's difficult to feel bad about _anything_ when you're grinning that much.

     No matter how your time at university has flown by thus far, the next three weeks drag on for so long you begin to feel that you're trapped inside an infinitely reoccurring loop. You're almost certain that you've sat in the exact same lecture on flashbulb memory twice now. Whenever Kanaya is far away, you convince yourself that it's for the best, because if she visits, it only means that she's going to leave again. Now that she's actually coming, though, you can't even bring yourself to think of the possibility of her ever leaving. You're in far too good a mood for that. You get everything ready for her visit, which mostly consists of turning in two papers early, clearing out the clutter in your room, and ensuring the cupboards in your kitchen are full.

     On the day of her arrival, you drive down to the airport and arrive two hours early. You pace back and forth like this is going to be the first time the two of you have ever met, and you tell yourself over and over again that everything's going to be fine. And you almost believe it, until there's a sudden stabbing pain in the pit of your stomach and a pounding in your head, causing you to feel faint until you realise that, oh, of course, you've yet to eat today. You purchase a hideously overpriced bagel from one of the airport restaurants, along with a black coffee, and try to kill time by eating. Three minutes later and you're lacking a bagel and Kanaya's still not there with you.

     And then when she does arrive, it's suddenly too soon. You see her walking through the gate at arrivals, and oh god, when did she get so _tall_? She's completely above the rest of the crowd, quite literally beaming, and it makes you panic when nobody else pays the blindest bit of attention to the undead alien that moves among them. If not for John and your other friends, you'd think that you lost your mind long ago. It's a much more reasonable explanation than the universe constantly rewriting itself to fit in with your whims.

     When she's finally stood in front of you, you find yourself as out of breath as you were in your room when you were trying to get to the email in the first place. You smile up at her, exchange the same sort of greetings that you always do over Pesterchum, and when you reach out to take one of her bags, you end up grabbing her hand by mistake. You pull your hand away quickly like you've just touched a ring on the hob, but any awkwardness is soon chased away by a snappy comment and a bout of laughter.

     It's easy to feel comfortable around Kanaya when you're so rushed, when you're doing your best to push through a crowd that's fighting against you to get to check-in, and then when you're trying to get all four of Kanaya's suitcases into the back of your car before another hour-mark passes and you have to pay extra for using the car park in the first place. Although you took extra care with your appearance before you left the house, you look nothing short of a mess now, hair windswept, sticking to your face in bizarre places where the constant drizzle has battered against your face, but you suppose that it doesn't matter. No matter how you dressed, no matter what lengths you went to, Kanaya would've considered you entirely unfashionable anyway. Or at least that's what you think until you're in the car, and Kanaya tells you that you're looking Very Nice Today Rose, because apparently somebody told her that University Students Have Appalling Diets And Are Wont To Spend Entire Days Dressed In Nothing More Than Garments Designed To Be Worn Purely During The Hours Dedicated To Sleep, and so she's glad that You However Are Looking As Wonderful As Ever.

     For the rest of the journey back to your university, you grip the steering wheel tighter than you need to, hands turning white around it.

     The first thing you do is take Kanaya back to your student house, because neither of you arranged any kind of temporary accommodation for her, and the two of you lug the suitcases up to your room. Because it's better that they're inside, you tell her, in case somebody breaks into your car. These student houses are built in little self-contained villages in the middle of great cities, and the thieves in the area know where to target well enough. When your housemates return from lectures to the day, you actually make the effort to give them a thorough introduction to Kanaya. It could well be the most you've ever said to them in one sitting, but for some reason, you just want these people to _know_ all about Kanaya, and to see a glimpse of what you see in her.

     As with every other stretch of time you've spent with her, it's difficult for you to believe that she really is there. You've dreamt of her before, but you don't bring this up, simply because you don't see a need to. You've dreamt about all of your friends, along with a handful of people you don't regard quite as fondly, before, but this feels unreal to you in a way that your dreams never have. You almost want to reach out and touch her to ensure that she's really there, but you don't; you don't, because before you know it, she's going to be gone again.

     You move the computer chair out of your room and relocate your vast collection of shoes (trainers, slippers, boots for the winter) to the far corner of your room, and then there's just enough space for you to comfortably set up a pile of blankets on the floor. Kanaya thanks you for providing her with a make-shift bed and reassure you that it's far more bed-like than much of what she's been offered up throughout her journeys, but you simply tut under your breath, and inform her that she'll be sleeping in the bed. She's your guest, after all, and though you make some vague suggestion towards looking for a cheap hotel over the next few days, you don't have much of an intention to go through with the plan. Kanaya won't be here for long, because she never is, and you don't want to have to worry about traipsing across town just to ask her what she wants for her breakfast.

     You give her a tour of your campus. You avoid the cafeteria, not wanting to inflict that on her, and then the both of you get distracted in the library, confining yourselves to a quiet corner and getting lost in books. You never get much further than that on the tour, and maybe some would consider it to be a waste of time, but you can't imagine yourself enjoying anything more. Kanaya's been there for close to a whole day and you've yet to ask her how long she plans on staying, because you're trying to convince yourself that it's only going to be a week so that when she tells you that it's two or three, there'll be absolutely no way you can be disappointed.

     You find that you don't need to go anywhere special with her, don't need to do anything extraordinary, for the time to fly by far too quickly. The two of you talk for hours on end, and you stay up far too late every night, despite having spent the whole of the day together, all three meals included. She fills in the gaps between the emails she sent you, tells you all that she couldn't find the time to type out over Pesterchum, and she talks about building wells in remote little villages like it's nothing, and for some reason, you have the most ridiculous compulsion to throw your arms around her.

     But you don't, because she'll be gone soon.

     The fact that at least one of her suitcases wasn't filled to the brim with souvenirs strikes you as strange, but you suppose that's for the best. There's hardly room for much more in your room, cluttered with textbooks and battered copies of well-loved novels as it is. Going to the mall is hardly your most cherished pastime, but you take Kanaya there nonetheless, because her jade eyes never fail to widen in delight as she finds herself in the centre of a flurry of clothing stores. Alongside anyone else, such an outing would bore you, but with Kanaya, you start to understand what the fascination with this seemingly endless array of clothing could all be about, from a strictly psychological point of view.

     When the weather permits it, you take Kanaya down to a local park, which you're certain isn't very exciting, after all that she's seen and done these past seven years. But she's taken by the idea nonetheless, and decides that it's the perfect opportunity to host a picnic. Night falls, and the two of you are ready to give yourselves over to sleep, Kanaya in your bed, you curled up in a ball on the floor, utterly contented, and even though the lights are off, the two of you speak in hushed whispers about everything that's gone on during those five short days as if they've been five lifetimes in and of themselves. It's not until the next morning, not until you find her in your kitchen, using the house phone to talk to your mother, that you realise how _real_ this suddenly all is, and how huge a role Kanaya has always played in your life. Again, you're struck by the most compelling urge to cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, but the desire to do so fades when a third person makes their way in, heading directly for the fridge.

     You deal with the fact that she'll be leaving again soon by letting it suddenly occur to yourself how much Kanaya did for you back when you first set foot on this Earth. You're suddenly stressed, walking around with heavy footsteps, head down, and you have the presence of mind to actually be embarrassed about the way she treated you and the weakness you showed in front of her. Kanaya watches with wide, confused eyes as you storm about, and after an hour, you realise that you're doing nothing but squandering the little time the two of you have together on being petty. You force a smile, deciding that this it is, this is the last of your week together. You'll be driving back from the airport all by yourself in the amount of time it takes you to blink.

     After a day spent doing much of nothing, but still filled with so many things you lose track of the hours completely, you return to your house, and argue with your housemate over whose turn it is to do the dishes. It certainly isn't yours, because you and Kanaya have eaten in restaurants almost every night for the past week, and so you've barely contributed to the mess at all. Upstairs, you find Kanaya in your room, rummaging through one of her suitcases, and your heart sinks so low that your heartbeat's relocated itself to one of your feet. She's packing. Of course she is.

     She glances over her shoulder at you, face green, as if you've caught her in the middle of something you shouldn't have interrupted. This only piques your curiosity, and moving onto tiptoes, you try to look over your shoulder. From what you can tell, she's holding a piece of paper with some sort of map on it, but you don't see much. She turns on her heels, facing you directly, hands folded behind her back.

>   
> What are you hiding, Kanaya?   
> What I May Or May Not Be Conveniently Stowing Behind My Back Is Not Um  
> A Matter Up For Debate At This Very Moment    
> I see. Then what are we debating, albeit in a rather impromptu manner?    
> Its Less Of A Debate And More Of A  
> Specific Question Actually  
> One That Id Like To Ask You Right Now Because Its Something Ive Been Wondering About For Some Days   
> Go ahead. I'm an open book.   
> Yes An Open Book Written In A Long Since Lost Language That No One Can Hope To Grasp  
> Least Of All Me As I Am Not A Native To This Planet  
> Anyway  
> I Guess What Id Like To Know Is Why Youve Yet To Ask Me When Im Going To Leave And So On  
> Isnt That Sort Of Important With Regards To Your Plans Revolving Around Your Studies And Returning Me To The Airport   
> ...   
> Rose   
> Sometimes, I prefer to be in the dark about things. It helps me to live my life on the edge.   
> Okay  
> I Dont For A Second Believe That But Okay Its The Best Answer Im Bound To Receive  
> Well Asking You The Question Was Somewhat Misleading To Begin With Because There Are Certain Truths Ive Been Keeping From You   
> And they're plotted out on that map, are they? Is it buried treasure, Kanaya?   
> Rose Please This Isnt The Time For Your Relentless Sense Of Humour  
> Just Look   
> It's a map of... well, it's a map of this area, with a house circled. Kanaya, does your crypticism know no end?   
> Again Rose Please Control Your Stunning Powers Of Observation  
> Its Simply That After Many Many Years Karkat Aradia And Myself Decided That Perhaps We Should  
> As It Is Often Phrased Here On Earth  
> Settle Down And To Do That We Require A Dwelling Of Our Own   
> And you're going to move here? To this very house?   
> Hopefully Yes   
> Kanaya. You do realise that it's less than a forty-five minute drive from here, don't you?   
> Yes   
> 

     All of a sudden you're very, very dizzy, and while the walls are closing in on you, your room is far larger than it ought to be. You blindly reach out a hand, trying to seek out your computer chair, but belatedly remember the fact that you removed it from your room last week. Exhaling shakily, you sit down on what you hope is the edge of your bed, and to your surprise, don't end up sprawled across the floor. With your mattress dipping beneath you, you rest your elbows against your knees and your face in your hand, and breath deeply. You hear Kanaya let out a startled Ummm, but her voice is far away, so far that she may as well not even be in the room. You don't even know what you should be feeling right now. Something inside you just wants to unravel and break you down into a shaking, sobbing mess, and so instead you just laugh.

     It's a warm, delighted sound, and it rings untrue in your ears, because you can't believe what Kanaya's just told you. You can't believe that she's planned on moving so close to you all along, and that you've spent the last week avoiding brushing your fingertips against hers when it could be easily be written off as an accident, all because you thought this was all so temporary. But you realise that nothing with Kanaya has even been fleeting, and nothing probably ever will be, because even when she was off rambling around the globe, you still had her words, and she still took up far too much space in your mind. You spread your fingers apart, staring up at her through the gaps formed there, and she gives you a bemused smile that positively makes your heart leap. She's there. Kanaya's there, and she's not going any further than a car drive away.

>   
> Rose  
> Are You Alright  
> Is This Whats Typically Referred To In Your Textbooks As A Psychotic Episode   
> 

     And you grin because she's grinning, because she knows exactly what it is she's done to you, fangs on display and not the least bit threatening. Reaching out, you tug on the edge of her sleeve, and she stumbles towards you, letting out a distressed Oof as she has no choice but to fall against you. Your arms wrap around her waist, and in that moment, it's like you've dived straight at the burning tree and came out stronger for it. You're still laughing, you realise, and that soon simmers away into silence as you have her rolled onto her back, and your own face buried in her shoulder. You begin to feel as if you could stay like that forever, until her fingertips run through your hair and then suddenly there's nothing you can do to keep yourself still. You look up at her, and barely have enough time to take in the features of her face so up close, because she's got her black lips pressed against your own, and your eyes can't do anything but flutter to a close.

     The two of you stay there for a long time, wrapped in each other, and you say nothing that doesn't revolve around how utterly terrible she is for keeping this from you for so long. She wanted it to be a surprise, she says, and it certainly is; such a surprise that you can't even recall how you went from being stood in front of her to being curled up in your bed. The steps from one point to another don't even seem logical, but you don't care for sense right now. With your nose pressed to her cheek, you breathe in deeply, smelling the scent of every land she's travelled through lingering on her skin. There are a hundred worlds there, each one playing a part in who she is now, but as the two of you lie together, it all merges into one, until the earth from the nations are vivid enough that you can imagine running your fingers through a handful of it. And though she has visited every corner of the globe, though there are so many stories written out in the scent of her skin, her hair, she is close and warm now, and the only thing you can take from it is that this is how the here and now feels, and that it isn't going to fade away if you try clinging to it too tightly.


End file.
